


Fic: I would love you anywhere (probably)

by Tyleet



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Gen, M/M, Sexual Violence, casual ableist language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-18
Updated: 2009-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-04 13:08:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyleet/pseuds/Tyleet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>There is no actual sexual underage non-con here, but there are rape implications and enough other non-con (violence, forced magic/emotion) to make it possibly triggering.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Fic: I would love you anywhere (probably)

**Author's Note:**

> There is no actual sexual underage non-con here, but there are rape implications and enough other non-con (violence, forced magic/emotion) to make it possibly triggering.

Dawn Summers shouldn't have been in Gotham City.

For one thing, it was a school day, and it wasn't a vacation. For another, Gotham was supposed to be one of _the _most dangerous cities in America and her sister would totally freak if she knew Dawn was there by herself, without a cell phone, her driver's license or any money.

For another thing, Gotham City shouldn't have been real.

But none of this stuff mattered when you were really the mystical Key to the universe. One minute she was having a normal Tuesday morning—fighting Andrew tooth and nail for the hall bathroom (she'd long given up on ever stealing her sister's since her skeezy Eurotrash boyfriend moved in and started laying a three hour claim to it every morning), angsting about whether Davide would take her back after she sort of kind of really excusably with _reasons_cheated on him a little bit (her best friend Elena said probably yeah, Andrew ranted about the forgiving nature of love and quoted Moulin Rouge, and Buffy said no), and trying to avoid the insane medieval cult that came to Rome to try and eviscerate her for the good of the universe. Again.

The dangerous part, if you weren't paying attention, was the last thing.

Two of them ambushed her halfway on her way to school, _completely _wrecking her fairly new just-had-to-sweet-talk-Buffy-into-it-for-her-last-birthday mint green Vespa, not to mention ruining her favorite _Fang_ shirt with the blood that got all scraped up one arm when she fell off. The whirling dervish of swords got noticed too, of course, but once you've been kidnapped by a hellgod, faced off the First Evil and seen your entire town wiped off the face of the earth, you kind of stop being impressed by that sort of thing. She tried to ignore the sounds of their uber-religious chanting, though, because no good ever came of that.

_Abbas , nos tendo vobis Key cuius cruor vadum patefacio universitas. Abbas , key ero pessum ire ut nos es vestri vernula._

Using her normal blend of clever strategy and killer instinct, Dawn threw her book bag at them, sending books, textbooks, tampons and a few stakes flying into the air. She had just enough time to witness _The Watchmen_ clip one of the Knights in the chin (okay, so maybe she might have had some of Andrew's comic books in there too—not like she'd read them! She planned on reading them, sure, but that was different. Because she was, uh, using them for research. There could be secret demon knowledge hidden in the pages of Alan Moore. Really! Weirder things have happened—hello, robots?) before she levered herself up from the concrete and ran away like hell.

Or that was the plan, anyway.

In reality, what happened was that the not _Watchmen_ wounded Knight ran at her, still chanting (in Latin? Sounded like Latin), she dodged, and slipped on an opened copy of _The Sandman_. She went back down, shrieking.

Then several things happened very quickly.

Both the Knights looked at each other and raised their swords high in eerie unison, still chanting--

and Dawn flung herself backwards, elbows scraping against the concrete, but there was no way she could move fast enough—

the chanting reached a peak—

_Abbas , nos tendo vobis Key cuius cruor vadum patefacio universitas. Abbas , key ero pessum ire ut nos es vestri vernula._

and a drop of Dawn's blood fell.

The Knights brought their swords triumphantly down.

Dawn screamed.

A tiny drop of red splashed onto a drawing of a smiling red mouth, and for a fraction of a fraction of a second, it glimmered green.

The swords met concrete. Dawn was no longer there.

Dawn was in Gotham City.

*  
It had been a normal Tuesday afternoon.

He'd jerked awake at four pm on the dot to the ring of a stranger's alarm. He moved a sleep-skittery hand down his front to prod at his not-really-morning erection, and traced the other across a fading bruise on his ribs. Fading. Hmph. He'd have to fix that soon. After a minute he rolled across the bed to turn the alarm clock off, brushing against the bound body of the stranger as he did it. From the terror-stiffness in that touch, he guessed the guy'd been up all_ day. _

He had some probably-not-too-spoiled pastrami for breakfast, and attended to his _coiffure._ There was a bathroom in the apartment, he was fairly sure, but it's not like he needed it. He sat on the floor of the kitchenette and shaved—quick careless strokes that nicked at his scar tissue and made him wish for an old fashioned straight razor (but that had always been a dream, he'd always been a, haha, Sondheim fan.) A vigorous dunking of his head under icy cold water straight from the faucet, a little scoop of dishwasher soap squeezed into the old _updo _for the color, the razor tucked behind his ear for safe keeping. His face came on carefully, first whole handfuls of white smeared on, then tiny dabs of black and red traced with the tip of one blunt nailed finger. He bit the edge of his tongue in concentration, and savored the hot sting when he drew blood.

Then he went to work.

Pretty mundane tasks, rigging charges, but you know what they say. Do what you _love_, and you'll never work a day in your life. He hummed the theme to _Indiana Jones_, and wondered idly what Batman thought about snakes.

And then she'd dropped from the sky, like a piano or an anvil or birdshit or something.

Except not literally out of the sky, of course.

She'd appeared out of thin air, but the anvil metaphor still stood since the sudden appearance of a screaming teenager on his shoes knocked him right off his feet and into a tangled heap of coltish limbs and purple leather.

"Ga—aaah!" he said, which under the circumstances might be an understandable reaction, even for a guy like _him._

"Aaah!" she shrieked in apparent agreement, scrambling away. She fumbled with something in her pocket for a second—and produced a wooden cross, which she held defensively out in front of herself.

The Joker burst out laughing.

She looked defensive, but didn't drop the cross.

"What—oh ho ho hee—what do you plan on doing with that, little girl, hm? Convert me to death?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Who are you?" she demanded.

He licked at his lipstick and smiled at her, still sprawled on the floor. "Me? I'm just a guy. A guy doing his job. You're the unknown."

He waited a moment, then added conspiratorially—"This is the part where you tell me your name, uh, sweetheart. I promise I won't tell the _police_."

"I'm Dawn Summers," she said as if that meant something, "—emphatically not your sweetheart, and you are _so_ not just a guy," she rolled her eyes at him. "I know the type."

"It is_ so_ hard being original these days," he agreed, and sat up. She flung the cross at him in startled reaction, and he caught it just before it connected with his forehead. He snorted, and turned it around in his gloves. "The wrath of God! I gotta say, I'm impressed. I didn't think I really registered on the Big Guy's scale before, but it's nice to think he cares."

She didn't laugh at the joke, but looked put out. "Well, at least I haven't been kidnapped by vampires," she said philosophically.

_Vampires_! She was too much. "Vampires!" he exclaimed delightedly. "You're too much."  
That got an even more suspicious look. "So—you didn't kidnap me."

"Kidnap you?" He looked shocked. "I don't know what you've heard about me, hm, Dawn, but I don't just kidnap people at random. And practically never _one on one_. Anymore."

"Ha! I knew you were evil," she said triumphantly. "Despite the cross immunity. Are you a demon, or just psycho?"

His mock pout was ruined by his giggles. "_Evil_? Why'd you have to go and ruin my surprise? What gave it away?"

She looked around, shrugging. "We're in an abandoned factory. No good ever happens there. Duh. Plus, there's your face."

The corner of his mouth lifted just a very little. "Horrifying, aren't they?" His voice lowered. "Wanna know how I got them?"

She shook her head. "Once you've seen ancient Sumerian symbols carved into your classmate's eyes, you've kind of seen the worst scars have to offer. I was talking about your lipstick shade. The bad guys always choose—"

"Harlot," he finished. "It's a, uh. Thing. Anyway. Random torture, _rape_—" he noticed with a smile how she flinched at the word—"that's just not my style anymore, you understand. It's like one of those jokes you've told too many times that are—well, okay, they're _still funny_—but you don't laugh at it anymore. Two Face, though, I hear he still _likes_ that sort of thing—especially girls with _brown_ hair and _blue_ eyes—so you might be in luck if he, haha, if he's in a nostalgic sort of _mood_."

"It's not like I _want_ to be kidnapped!" she protested. "I've been there, done that, bought the T-shirt and the commemorative coffee mug. But I obviously _wa_s, and I need to get back to Rome, like, pronto. I have a chem test in half an hour." She paused. "On the other hand, maybe I _don't _need to get back right away…"

"Right, right." He waved dismissively. "Who needs school when you could have a hostage situation instead?" He considered this, and grinned hugely. "Maybe more to the point, who needs _work _when you could have a hostage situation instead…And I do need some fresh bruises. Maybe Batsy would like a surprise present, do you think? After all, when fate just drops inspiration into your lap…you make lemonade."

He tucked the cross into his buttonhole and pushed himself to his feet, managing to look ominous despite the fact that the girl had a good three inches on him. It might have something to do with the razor sharp apple corer that appeared in his right hand. She backed up, babbling indignantly.

"That is completely not fair! I have a legitimate kidnapper somewhere nearby, and they're probably looking for me right now! And anyway, I just appeared out of the air, right? I could totally have magicks of which you know not what! Or something. And you have like a rule, right? There's no reason to break your no-torturing random people rule just for me! That would be l-lame!"

More giggles. "You know what, Dawn, I like you," he said, reaching for her arms. "But the fact is, it's almost Valentine's Day, and I haven't had the slightest clue what to get for my—"

And that was when he touched her.

He rocked back as if he'd been shocked but didn't let go of her, hands tightening around her upper arms like a vise.

She struggled. "Let—go of me!"

He let out a long, rumbling gasp that was half giggle and half pornographic sigh. "Oh, _Dawnie. _Dawnie—Summers? Dawn, you've been holding out on me."

His hands gripped her even harder and she cried out. He continued, eyeing her up and down with new gleeful wonder. "Jesus! I guess the old guy really does like me! Just going about my business, and he drops you into my lap. Ha. Ahahahaha! Don't you just_ love_ deus ex machina? It's like Christmas and puppies and Batman in his batbriefs all at once!"

He saw her eyes widen as she mouthed _Batman _incredulously after him—what? A full five minutes in his company and she didn't realize who he _was_? He kept going, twisting her hands behind her back.

"I've always known there's—something more. You feel that way ever? Like the whole wide world's blind and you wear _bifocals_?"

"Yeah, no. And—Batman in his underwear? I am so sick of evil nerds."

He ignored that, since clearly it was crazy talk. "And then there's you. You're like—a doorway to the world where people have eyes like _spiders_. No—you're like—"

"A Key," she ground out. "I'm a Key."

"Exactamundo," he said with relish. "Except not really. The key is the present—you're the _wrapping paper_. Who would guess that underneath all that shiny hair and those sweet big blues you have—" he paused, as if at a loss for words as he slid a pair of handcuffs he'd produced from the depths of his coat onto her wrists. "You have _everything_? Nobody."

The handcuffs clicked shut, and he smiled, face very close to hers. "Well. Except for me," he said, and let her go.

She stumbled backwards, off-balance. There really wasn't anywhere to run to. Her lips tightened. "That's totally not true. Lots of people know. You're not_ special_, you're just nuts&lt;/i&gt;."

He laughed. "I told you I was, uh, _bored_ with evisceration. That's because most people are boring. They all scream at the same pitch when you hit a certain nerve, all call out for their boring Mommy in the end. They all have the same, boring insides. Red and slippery. Don't get me wrong, I like them! If you want to be honest I like them _a lot_. But after the first—" a flicker of hands in the air, as if he were tracing a heart in front of his chest "—_fifty _or so, it just starts getting…dull."

Her mouth was a beautiful compressed line now, one he was going to love cracking open. "Right. It's like apocalypses. After you live through your seventh you stop being afraid of the everyday freaks like you," she spat. Her eyes were flickering wildly over the room, looking for cover, escape, something. Not today, surprise birthday present.

He moved closer, meeting her glare and nodding understandingly. "Not _really_. It's more like—it's like sex. Have you had sex, uh, Dawn?"

Her eyes were a little bigger now, mouth softened just a fraction before it tightens itself back up. She took a few more steps backwards. Bingo. "None of your beeswax."

He moves his hands as he talks, so that even though he doesn't step closer to her again, every movement seems to close the distance between them. "At first you don't care who's _touching _you so long as you're being _touched_—all you care about is, the uh, end solution. But then you start getting bored with the blood and the screaming and the sweet little mouths opening up around you. You start craving something—stranger. Muscles, and black leather, and voices like razors and eyes like your own _bruises_ until those tears and mouths and thin white limbs and all the trappings of a normal love life just don't seem the same. You still _like_ sex, but it's nowhere near as nice as it could be with somebody you're really …_crazy_…about.

That's what evisceration's like. I mean, it's all slice, spread, pry open 'em up and bathe in the hot red cascade. Fun, but not enough.

But_ you_—you're like--a bright green bomb inside." His voice dropped to a throaty growl. She looked frozen to the floor, eyes saucer wide. "I _like_ bright green. And I_ love _bombs."

Less than a moment and he was back in her space, touching one purple glove to her neck. She flinched.

"I like you, Dawnie. So why don't you—ah ah ah, come here—why don't you listen to me tell you a _joke_?"

She kneed him in the groin, and ran.

This was the part he loved, where the screams and his laughter mingled, measured in quick little dashes towards freedom and short fierce moments of violence. He let her get away before he pounced on her again, let her run a little less every time, and enjoyed the way her fear crackled in the air like green energy as she shrieked and threatened—"My sister will—" and "The Watcher's Council--!" and "I've completely killed uber vamps before, you know!" and a few frantically repeated phrases "Hecate: permissum diligo servo mihi!" in—was that Latin? _Gosh_ but she was so well rounded. He liked that in a girl. The moans of pain weren't bad either.

"You think you're doing something different? You're like a Glory knockoff! Only stupider!" she shrieked at him, finally. "I don't unlock anything anymore! There are _rules_, okay? I'm useless until the stars align again, which will be like in another thousand years, so just _let me go_!"

Rules. He had to laugh.

"Listen, a god failed at what you're trying to do. A freaking GOD." Her voice cracked. "It's pointless!"

"Riiiight. Gods, psychos, vampires—you sure get around, Dawnie! But there's just one tiny—little--hiccup." He ran his tongue sensuously over his lower lip. "I _am _crazy."  
It ended with him straddled over her, hands pressed roughly into her shoulder blades to keep her still. She was whimpering from the pain of the entire weight of her body resting on her still handcuffed arms.

"O—kay," he said, settling in. "You're the expert on the super-natural here. What does a vampire use as his pickup line?"

Her lower lip trembled.

"'I've always been a _sucker_ for a pretty face.' Why do you think vampires drink blood?" he asked, bending forward and resting his elbows on her collar bone so that almost all his weight settled on her shoulders.

She cried out, then gave a stuttering laugh. "Because it's—it's always about blood."

He howled. "I like that! But no, _inh_! Wrong. 'Because coffee would keep them awake all day!'" He shifted one hand to stroke her shuddering neck. "What does a vampire like to eat?"

Her face crumpled. "Weetabix," she said, and spit in his face.

Indulgent chuckles as he wiped it off and sucked his finger clean. "I was going for _nectarines_. Last one. How do you unlock the Key to my heart?" The apple corer made a re-appearance.

She started muttering more Latin, stumbling desperately over the alien phrases, and he could feel her heart-rate pounding faster than an irritated Batman on a teenage mobster.

"Perse--sephone: p-permissum diligo servo mihi—Persephone—permisss—sum--"

"Well," he breathed, "it's always about the blood." He twirled the apple-corer. She screamed hoarsely, and on an impulse, he bent down and drank.

That's when the world went bang.

*

It had been a perfectly normal Tuesday evening.

Bruce Wayne dined with Selina Kyle at the Versailles Club. He had the lobster. He drank four glasses of raspberry juice from a wine glass, and didn't invite her home. He climbed into his Lamborghini and drove to a hidden underground parking lot below a construction site.

He changed his clothes. He checked his email. His phone rang, and he went to answer it.  
Before he could check the caller ID it hit. He dropped the phone. It crashed to the floor. So did he.

It was 9:22, and Bruce Wayne couldn't breathe.

A bright green flash in his vision, in the air, between worlds--

He is himself, he is Bruce Wayne, he is Batman and he always has been. The boy at his side—a stranger to him, but somehow indescribably dear. Flashes of yellow and red and green—a bright clear light to contrast Batman's crowded shadows. Thin and muscular with hard grey eyes and a smile that quirks up on one side—he is an artist, Bruce can tell. But this makes sense, since he began his life as a circus performer, and how could Bruce have not known Dick?

"Are you all right, old man?" Concern as ever masked under sarcasm; yes, this is his child.

Batman still feels strange, unsettled, but patrol is no place to have a meltdown. They have a mission, after all. "I'm fine. After him, Robin!"

Dick smiles, but the edge of worry does not leave his eyes. Yes, this is love, pure love, and this is the hunt, this is what Bruce lives for.

"To the Batmobile!"

They are chasing a laughing shadow in white, purple and green.

flash

He is himself, he is Bruce, he is Batman and he always will be. He is sitting at a table, fists clenched on the tabletop, and the suit feels strange on his skin. The place is familiar, though—he knows this table, he knows these shadows. The man sitting across from him playing solitaire has no face, and there is something _wrong _with his skin.

He becomes aware of himself speaking. He thinks he has been speaking for a long time. His voice is low and intimate.

"I've been thinking lately. About you and me. About what's going to happen to us, in the end. We're going to kill each other, aren't we?"

He grows angry. The other man does not react, and he should always react, this is something Bruce knows deeper than his bones, that this man and Bruce should always—

"Perhaps you'll kill me. Perhaps I'll kill you. Perhaps sooner. Perhaps later. I just wanted to know that I'd made a genuine attempt to talk things over and avert that outcome. Just once."

He is furious, anger sending little shocks down his spine because he will not be ignored and so he reaches out to _touch_\--

flash

He is himself, he is Bruce Wayne, he is Owlman and he always has been.

Groaning as he drives himself in and out, in and out, this is a universal rhythm. He knows this pleasure too; a pleasure that is also fury, that is also hatred, and yet more fury that the pleasure is so great. He groans, and the sound vibrates familiarly through his body. His balls slap against someone's white white ass with every thrust, and his hands—oh, so much bigger! have the other by the throat. In, out, in, out, clench, release, clench, release, choke the laughs before they're born, twist the giggles into gasps.

…Is that purple hair…?

Oh, yes, there are also obscenities. A constant stream of filth pouring out from between his lips—oh, yes, yes, you like this, should I hurt you more? (I can always hurt you more.) God so fucking tight did she feel like this under you ever? did you ever fuck her the way I'm fucking you now did you ever leave her raw and bleeding and unable to sit down without pain for a week did you? I could kill her again right here right now splash you with her blood and you'd just beg me to let you come, wouldn't you, freak? You want to come, you want to—

Yes, yes, all the feelings are familiar, but there is something else there, a hot strange something lodged in the back of his throat that Owlman doesn't like. It's enough to make him take pity and bite down hard on the clown's neck, just in the right spot so that he'll scream without air and come untouched.

Why did he do that? Furious, he clenches down hard with both hands on the clown's throat, and holds it for far too long. Funny how the starbursts are all in his own vision, then, isn't it?

flash

He is himself, he is Bruce, he is Batman.

He is with a woman. She looks vaguely familiar, but she is dressed all in black leather and blue goggles. They are standing very close, and her lips look capricious and soft.

"I know who you are, Selina. Where you live. What you do during the day. Like you, I have two lives. I want you to be part of both lives."

She speaks, but Bruce doesn't hear over the sudden rush of panic as he removes his cowl. Why is he—no, he's considered this. Nightwing and Alfred both think it's the right decision. More importantly, _he's_ decided to trust her.

She's wrapped around him, close and dear and fitting perfectly in his arms and both his worlds.

flash

He is himself, Bruce, Batman, and he can't remember why he feels like weeping.

*

Across the city, psychiatrist Harleen Quinzel, never assigned to Arkham's most famous inmate, is tearing at her hair and sobbing.

Selina Kyle, never a prostitute and never a thief, is shaking in a ball on the floor, but she is smiling.

Alfred Pennyworth clutches desperately at his heart.

Edward Nigma, a perfectly normal consultant at Wayne Enterprises is scratching at his own eyeballs.

Jim Gordon's eight year old daughter screams for her parents, tiny hands pressed tightly to her stomach, and they do not come.

Dawn Summers is no longer in Gotham City.

Gotham City is in Dawn Summers.

She is everywhere, green lightning and burning ozone, a tension in the air, a sparkling fog slinking around the streetcorners and rubbing up against the windowpanes. At the heart of Dawn Summers is a man with dingy green hair and a painted face. His mouth is pressed in a parody of a kiss to the neck of a still, pale girl.

He is also, at the moment, a woman in another universe.

"Of course I get it," the Joker says aloud to herself. "I always knew there was an us. Just like there's always a, uh, an audience. And there's always a Bat. Is there a me who doesn't enjoy explosions? Like, at all? Because sometimes I think about that, but it just doesn't seem_ possible_."

_I'll tell you what, I'll let you know_, the Joker says silently to herself. _Good, AHAHAHAHA, good luck with the baby. Get him a nice, mm, tattoo when he pops out. Property of Batfreak and Mumkins. _

"Well _duh_, stupid," she giggles, rubbing her stomach contemplatively. She turns back to the man tied to a chair in the center of the room, a ball gag in his mouth. He's giving her that sideways look that means "god, you're crazy."

"What are you looking at, Jonathan?"

flash

"Well, whattaya know?" the Joker says with mock wonder, putting down his camera. "Put the kettle on, sugarpea, we've got _company_."

_This is beautiful_, he says to himself.

"Really, you think so? Heavens to _Murgatroyd_. I'm all flustered! They do say self esteem is critical in these troubled times. Wouldn't you say, honey?" He picks up the camera again, and snaps the elastic of Barbara Gordon's underwear. She screams, and he listens to himself laughing.

_Well, ahahaha, it's not that I don't appreciate the view, but honestly I was talking about your face. You must save so much time in the mornings. _

"It's a gift," the Joker smiles widely, and clicks the shutter off.

flash

_I was just wondering--how do you feel about sex? _

Peals of laughter—or there would be peals of laughter if he could get much more than a gasp out between Owlsie's choking fingers.

_Honestlee? _the Jokester replies silently, bucking backwards into Owlman's pistoning hips with a mewl of pleasure. _I think it's a little over-rated. _

_Well, this does seem a, uh. A little _passive _for my taste. It's just not the same without the self-disgust, is it? It's like he's_ winning_ or something. What gives?_

The Jokester smirks. _We-ell, that's because he—mm—doesn't know about the bombs that are about to decimate his, uh,_ nest. He grunts as Owlman runs a gloved hand down his chest to pinch one nipple cruelly, twisting it around nearly 180 degrees._ This is, oh, us lying back and thinking of Gotham. Have a little self confidence. _

He manages to look over one shoulder, and catches Bruce Wayne's furious gaze. The Joker expects the surge of desire and hate and happy misery that crashes over him when he sees that familiar face twisted with malice and lust, _welcomes_ it. He doesn't expect the sudden spread of ice low in his belly, as though the bottom just dropped out of the world, and not in a good way.

_Is—is that you or me?_ the Joker asks, unsettled.

The Jokester howls with laughter, shaking with it even though not a sound of it reaches the air. They both struggle for breath.

Something shifts in Owlman's eyes, just for a fraction of a fraction of a second, but it is enough for one of them to ask in sudden wonder _Bats_\--? And then he bites down on that spot on their neck, because some things are universal, and then they're both_ losing control_ and coming together, coming, coming…

flash (hang on a sec, need to straighten myself up first wait)

They are the Joker, but one of them calls himself Jack Napier and lives happily in a house with his wife and kiddies and turns the television off whenever the Batman footage comes on because Jeannie shouldn't have to listen to that crap--

_this is wrong_

flash (going too fast dammit not waiting for the punchline)

strange itchy feeling in his skin but that doesn't matter because they're both swept up in it, a stupid emotional storm of

oops oops oops don't die Harley don't die you stupid bitch we didn't mean to _kill_ her Bats please Batman _don't you dare let her die--_

flash (not very funny)

They are Jack, and their skin is smooth and tan and unlined. Their hair curls softly. They live in a world where Bruce Wayne didn't. They're happy.

He wants to scream and weep and tear himself apart.

flash (how do you shut the box before everything flies out)

he loves him

flash

no he doesn't

flash (not tall enough to ride this ride I have a history of heart conditions and I'm pregnant)

_we're an agent of chaos_

flash (spit it out, just raise your head and spit it out, or stop her heart and it will stop too)

because knives are just like sex, only _better_

flash

without you I'm incomplete

flash

_ **STOP.** _

The Joker opened his eyes.

Everything was green, except for his mouth, which was stained red. He had a girl in his arms who was slightly taller than he was, and she felt like nothing.

Two women stood before him. They were both tiny, but one of them held an axe and the other one had strange eyes—pupils, cornea, vitreous fluid and all—are so dark a green they might be black.

**Give me the Key**, she commanded.

His hands fluttered in a "go ahead" motion. "You know what, you can have her," he said.  
She said a Word, and the Key lay still in her arms.

The woman with the axe came forward, and the hard set of her mouth is perfectly lickable.

"You look like someone I know," he told her.

"Normally I don't kill humans," she said, and hefted the axe. "But the way I see it? You're not real anyway."

The Joker smiled.

Then she cut her palm on the edge of the axe and pressed it to his mouth.

Her blood was red. He drank.

Slowly, Gotham regained its color.

He felt Selina Kyle pick herself off the floor and smooth her dress, licking her lips thoughtfully, he felt Jim Gordon go tearing into his daughter's bedroom and cradle her close, he felt Harleen Quinzel slip into the sleep of the truly exhausted, he felt Edward Nigma start to laugh.

He felt Bruce Wayne shake awake, and stare through the fading green ether directly at him. He swallowed something, though whether it was a laugh or a sob or just more blood he had no idea.

The last thing he felt was Dawn Summers taking her first breath.

The woman wrenched her hand away and turned to the girl still clasped in the black eyed witch's arms. "That is _it_, Dawn, you are being driven to school from now on."

"But it wasn't my fault!" the Key that nearly killed him protested weakly. "Oh god. My Vespa. Is it okay?"

The Joker started to laugh.

The woman with his true love's mouth looked uncompromising. "Totaled. Turns out both Vespas _and_ seventeen year old girls don't take well to being _hacked at with swords_."

Dawn let out a moan of distress.

"And you are not getting another one. God, do you _want _to live in Scotland? Because I could totally send you to Scotland, no big, Xander would totally—"

"**Uh, Buffy? Can't exactly hold this open forever**," said the witch. "**And Dawnie? You were almost murdered by a comic book supervillain. Andrew is going to kill you out of jealousy. Maybe the Vespa talk could wait?**" She looked at the Joker curiously, and he couldn't stop laughing, great hacking rasps that shook his frame and burned in his stomach. "**In the seventh grade I wrote this fanfic about you where—but that was mostly to get Xander's attention anyway, so**—"

The woman with the axe cleared her throat. "The time for geekery has passed, Will."

"**Right. Sorry**." She closed her eyes and spoke another Word, and they all vanished as if they'd never been.

The Joker was alone in an empty warehouse, on his knees.

He laughed until he cried.


End file.
